


First Aid

by mageicalwishes



Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [15]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Book 2: Wayward Son, Caring Simon Snow, Carry On Countdown 2020 (Simon Snow), Carry on Countdown Day 15, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, minor blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes
Summary: Simon cares for Baz's Buckshot wounds. Less angsty re-write of the scene in Wayward Son."I glare at him - At his blackened under eyes, and matted hair. The slight hunch of his back. It does hurt. I know it does. Liar. I move my face closer to his, and breathe in his air. I want to hug him. To kiss him. To cheer him up, somehow. Make him better. But I can’t. I don’t know how. So, instead I step away. My hands dropping limply, to my sides."Carry On Countdown, Day 15 - Hurt/Comfort
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Countdown 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027147
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80
Collections: Carry On Countdown 2020





	First Aid

**Simon**

He sees me staring at him and glances down at his chest, eyes widening at the burgundy stain. Beelining towards the bathroom to avoid my inevitable (And very much necessary) questioning. 

I grab a hold of his arm, as he passes me, before he can escape. “Baz. Are you _bleeding?”_

He sucks in a breath and stares down at me, pleadingly. “No. I - It must have been the dog.” 

“No. You’re bleeding. I can _see_ it. What happened?” 

“Snow,” he starts, warning. “Just … leave it, please. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.” 

He eyes the door and tries to turn towards it, but I tug him closer to me. Starting on the buttons of his shirt, in order to assess the damage. 

He eyes Penny, anxiously. “Don’t.” 

“Let me look,” I whisper, pulling him towards the bathroom. “In here, _please.”_

He nods his head reluctantly, and follows. Fidgeting about with his toiletries bag, as I lock the door behind us. 

“Alright?” I ask, pushing his hips against the counter and reaching for his shirt-front, once again.

He wraps his hands around my wrists, halting my movements. “It really is _alright,_ Simon. I just need a shower, that’s all. It looks … worse than it really is. You don’t need to see it.” 

I frown up at him, and shake his hands off. “I do. I want to. I - Maybe I can help.” 

He scrunches his eyes closed, defeated, and let’s me continue. Pushing the shirt from his shoulders, and tossing it on the floor. 

I can’t help but gasp when I see it - How _awful_ it looks. His stomach covered in harsh purple bruises. His chest, broken and bloody, spotted with small shards that have become embedded themselves in his skin. I reach up and press my fingers against them, Baz hissing minutely at the contact, as blackened metal drops to the floor. The debris disintegrating beneath my touch. 

_“Baz._ What - what happened to you?” 

“It’s just a bit of Buckshot. From last night.” 

I huff out a joyless laugh. “ _‘Just a bit of Buckshot.’_ ”

“It’ll heal, soon enough.” His voice is small, like he’s embarrassed to be caught like this - Vulnerable and hurting. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Tell _anyone?_ ” 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he groans, kneading his brow. “It’s _fine -_ Nothing major. We have _much_ more important things to worry about, right now, alright?” 

“No. It’s not _‘alright’,_ Baz!” I scold. “You got _shot_ and you didn’t tell anyone! For a smart guy, that’s a _bloody idiotic_ thing to do!” I shouldn’t be shouting at him, I know. I should be comforting him. Should be supporting him. But, he can’t just … do that! “You’re _hurt._ We could’ve _helped.”_

“It doesn’t hurt. Not really.” 

I glare at him - At his blackened under eyes, and matted hair. The slight hunch of his back. It _does_ hurt. I _know_ it does. _Liar._

I move my face closer to his, and breathe in his air. I want to hug him. To kiss him. To cheer him up, somehow. Make him _better._ But I can’t. I don’t know how. So, instead I step away. My hands dropping limply, to my sides. 

“There should be a First Aid kit, somewhere. I’ll go and get it.” 

He leans over and presses his arm against the door, stopping me from leaving. _Bastard_.

“Snow, I understand that you’re … worried. But _please don’t._ I’m _fine_ , it just needs a bit of time to heal, that’s all. You don’t need to concern yourself with this. _Please_ don’t concern yourself with this. It’s not important.” 

I want to argue - To fight. I want to _make_ him accept my help. But, deep down, I know I’m no better. I never let him help me - Never tell him when _I’m_ hurt. So, I can’t really demand that he be different. It wouldn’t be fair. 

“It’s important to _me,”_ I sigh. “Just ... at _least_ let me wash it out for you. You’ll get an infection otherwise.” 

He shakes his head, reaching down to collect his shirt, and half-smiling at me softly. “The Dead can’t get infections. Though … I do appreciate the concern, love.”

_Love. Even now._

I’m staring up at him - At the grey of his eyes, and the crook of his nose. We’re still standing so close together. I want to touch him - To say it back in my way - and so I lean forwards and press my forehead to his shoulder, clumsily. His hands lifting to rest against my hips - Accepting my touch, and cradling me close. 

“You’re not dead,” I breathe. “Let me do it. _Please._ ” 

He rolls his head backwards with an exaggerated groan (Which is _proper_ fit. I don’t really know why, exactly, but it is. Just like when he does the hoovering). “Fine. You can clean it up a little, alright?” 

Triumphant, I smile against his skin. _Who ever said stubbornness gets you nowhere?_

It isn’t exactly an _ideal_ set-up (Since, cheap motel bathrooms aren’t particularly well stocked), but I make do. Filling the sink with hand soap and warm water, and tugging my T-shirt off to use as a rag. Gently, picking out the larger bits of debris, and wiping down his chest until the suds stop coming up a bloodied pink. As he watches over me, stuck in a thoughtful silence. 

When I’m done, I pat him down, and press a kiss over his heart. 

“Better?” I ask.

He hesitates a moment, tracing his hand over the ghost of my kiss, utterly awestruck. Which is _fucking thrilling,_ to be honest. I like it when he goes all … gooey. My chest flooding with self-satisfied pride, at the confirmation that (In spite of it all. No matter how much of a shitty boyfriend I turned out to be), I can still make him melt like that.

“Yes,” he exhales. “Much better. You’re - Thank you, Simon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed :) Comments and kudos, appreciated.  
> My Tumblr: [Link text](https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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